


Loss and Light

by blindmadness



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mal dies for real, Marriage of Convenience, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-Canon, Royalty, mentions of Nina Zenik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8975509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindmadness/pseuds/blindmadness
Summary: At the end of the war, Alina is crowned queen.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outruntheavalanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/gifts).



> I read these books a few months ago and I, too, was pretty disappointed by the ending, so I was very pleased by the opportunity your prompt provided me to think of what I would want in a fix-it. I'm not sure if I would 100% rather this have happened, but I really enjoyed writing it, so thank you for that! <3
> 
> Technically this includes major character death, but it's canon, so it's more like... absence of major character resurrection. I wish I could have included Genya in this more because I adore her, but just imagine her constantly giving Alina the Lenny face in the background throughout the fic. Also, I suppose this contains a minor spoiler for Six of Crows? But so minor that you would probably not realize that that was what it was until you were reading about it anyway.
> 
> I did my best in terms of canon review, but it's still pretty new to me, so apologies for any errors, glaring or minor. Still, I hope you enjoy, and happy Yuletide!

The day Nikolai and Alina are crowned, the sun shines on Os Alta after an unbroken week of thick grey clouds. The people see it as a sign, their mood so festive it’s nearly frantic, their cheers feverishly loud as they behold the clasped hands of their new king and queen. _Korol Rezni,_ they chant, _King of Scars,_ a title born of fear but transformed in this moment to pride and delight. Some voices still call _Sol Koroleva. Sun Queen._

Some faces, though, are lit with more than the sunbeams from the sky, and long arcs of light dance in ecstatic patterns throughout the crowd, and the voices that are louder are calling, _Madraya. Mother._

No one gathered in the crowd outside the palace attended the king and queen’s marriage ceremony, held swiftly and briefly the night before, the instant they arrived in Os Alta. Genya Safin and David Kostyk were their witnesses, and the Apparat blessed their union. The kiss they shared to seal the marriage was brief and ceremonial, and when they pulled apart, Alina looked directly into Nikolai’s eyes, her expression solemn. But he couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking that he should have been someone else. He wonders still.

 

Life at the Grand Palace is wildly hectic at first. The country has to be rebuilt from the ground up, between recovery from the war and both the succession and the Second Army in upheaval; the most pressing of the threats from Fjerda and the Shu Han are being swiftly, urgently dealt with, but they will need more thorough addressing soon enough. Nikolai has a whole cabinet of advisors he needs to appoint—to decide who to trust, who to rely on, with very little time or aid in making those decisions.

As she did before, Alina takes over rebuilding the Second Army, so while Nikolai is forced to sit in the Grand Palace all day talking to people, usually in much calmer and far more charming tones than he would like, she spends her time with the few Grisha still left in the Little Palace. Nikolai assumes they’re strategizing, forming plans for the future, rearranging the ranks of the army. Sometime soon he’ll have to ask them after the details, to provide his own input and at least pretend some semblance of authority.

Now, though, he has far too many problems that only he can solve, and he trusts Alina’s judgment enough to know that the Grisha in good hands. And if he’s being honest with himself, he has to admit that seeing Alina as little as possible is safest for his health and sanity at the moment.

Their first night in Os Alta as a married couple, preparing for their coronation as king and queen, they had slept in separate quarters. They had never—since Alina had come to him after the battle, face drawn with grief but set with determination, and he had tried to find the gentlest, least offensive and insistent way of phrasing his proposal—discussed what marriage would mean for them. They had never discussed how they would conduct themselves within their marriage, whether they would consummate it even once, as required by law. 

But under the circumstances, he hadn’t felt they needed to. It was clear Alina was grieving, might never be quite whole again, and Nikolai had more pride than to try to woo a woman who might never want him, and more heart than to woo a woman still in love with a dead man. Besides, he had his own problems to worry about, the weight of everything he knew he would have to face as king and the ever-present shadow of the darkness still lurking in his chest, as if it might overtake him again at the slightest opportunity. Having a discussion about whether or not his wife intended to ever sleep with him was the last thing on his mind.

Every night since, they’ve slept in the king’s and queen’s mostly unaltered chambers, in the separate rooms his parents kept. Nikolai hates it, hates stepping into his parents’ shoes so thoroughly it seems like denying their existence altogether, but the symbolic gesture matters, and there’s too much to do before they can turn their attention to making the quarters their own. They’ve faced no trouble moving into the rooms, and no one has questioned the arrangement so far. It does mean that they barely see one another; Nikolai’s days are long, and Alina takes most of her meals with the rest of the Grisha. No time for discussions about even serious problems, let alone things as trivial as marital relations.

They do cross paths several times a day, however briefly, and each time Nikolai finds a way to ask—sometimes outright, sometimes just in a glance—if Alina’s power has returned. He doesn’t care, not for his own benefit, but he knows the questions will come eventually. And past that, he’s sure that the deadened look in Alina’s eyes, her slower step and her subdued manner, have been mourning for more than just Mal. He wants her to be whole again.

But each time, she shakes her head, or she raises her hands to illustrate—well, nothing. This continues for a week and a half, because it takes that long for Nikolai to realize that though he thought he was doing the right thing by asking after her, the questions actually hurt her more, forcing her to relive the missing part of her more directly than ever. She must be hurting enough being among so many Grisha every day, and the Grand Palace ought to be a place where she can spend some time away from that. So Nikolai stops asking, because these are the only small, insignificant things that he can do for her now, and that little amount of contact that they have dwindles to nearly nothing.

 

It takes three weeks for everything to calm from the fever pitch of all-out anarchy to the normal urgency of war, to gain some routine in the process of setting up the country’s new administration, enough so that the Apparat brings up the elephant in the palace.

“The servants talk, Your Majesty,” he says plainly, when Nikolai’s morning meeting with his new councilors is over. Thankfully, he waited until the others were out of the room before speaking. “You and the queen have yet to share a bed.”

Nikolai arches an eyebrow, slow and elegant, as if he can’t possibly imagine why this is coming up now or why it ought to be addressed. It’s like putting on an old and familiar coat, the role of arrogant young prince, charming privateer without a care in the world, whose cool exterior can’t be ruffled by anything, let alone minor matters of state. It’s a role he can’t afford to play anymore, not with Ravka’s fate resting on his shoulders alone—people drop their guard around a devil-may-care charmer, but they put their trust and hope in an intelligent and capable king.

Now, though, it feels good to settle back into it. Of course he knew this was coming. There was no way he could have avoided this conversation forever, but he wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. He couldn’t stall it forever, but he knows how uncomfortable it’s going to be to have it—and how much worse it’ll be to have the conversation that has to follow, with Alina. He might as well try to make it as uncomfortable as possible for the Apparat as well.

“Last month she was a saint,” Nikolai says, his voice a long, slow drawl. “Now you’re asking me to defile her?”

The Apparat looks highly offended. _Good,_ Nikolai thinks, and sends a mental apology to Alina for speaking of her in such terms, even to make a point. “She is a queen now,” he says stiffly. “Her role is to bear heirs. To ensure the succession of the Lantsov line, the stability of the kingdom.”

“She’s hardly a queen like any other,” Nikolai points out. Ravka has never had a queen who was once a Grisha, who was almost a saint. More to the point, they’ve never had a queen like Alina. Grisha or no, wayward saint or no, _she_ is unlike any other.

“Still a queen,” the Apparat says, unmoving. “The role of a queen is as it has always been. For the good of the country, Your Majesty, she must fill it.”

Nikolai lets both eyebrows arch then, the gesture so deliberate as to be offensive. He barely manages to stifle a smile as the Apparat stiffens, the insult clearly not going unnoticed. He shouldn’t provoke a man like this in this way, but under the circumstances, he can’t resist. He knows where this is going to go; he knows he’ll have to give in. Surely he’s earned the right to enjoy himself as much as possible along the way. 

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” he says, tone so light it’s practically a song. “And I very well might be—I’m only the king, after all. What do I know?” A muscle in the Apparat’s jaw twitches; he is, very clearly, not amused. _Good,_ Nikolai thinks again, savagely. He isn’t, either, despite the image he’s currently doing his best to project. “But I was under the impression that we are recovering from a war that’s torn our country to pieces, that we have barely had time to catch our breath in the process of recovery, and on the brink of attack from foreign nations with far more stability, both political and economic, than ours. How in the name of all the Saints, living and dead—” the Apparat sucks in a horrified breath at Nikolai’s blatant blasphemy “—can the issue of whether my wife and I have consummated our marriage be at the forefront of anyone’s mind?”

Even under the circumstances, he feels an illicit little thrill run through him, referring to Alina as his wife. He can’t help hating himself for it, just a little.

“It is,” the Apparat says gravely, his tone steady and cold, “exactly the uncertain state of the nation that makes this so important, Your Majesty. We must keep the kingdom running normally by any means necessary. We must provide the image of a strong ruling family—a king with advisors he trusts, an army united. A stable and successful marriage.”

Nikolai, of course, knows this. He isn’t a fool, and he knows how the game is played. If the rulers of a kingdom appear stable and in control, its citizens feel stronger, safer. It would be even better if they secured the succession as soon as possible, but for a thousand reasons, he can’t bring himself to think about having a child with Alina so coldly, with such calculation.

Still, he has to ask. He knows his duty, and he knows the sacrifices he must make for it, but the thought of coming to Alina’s bed with only obligation, the good of the country between them—that Alina might only deign to lie with him for the sake of Ravka—leaves him colder inside than the Darkling’s all-consuming magic. “What are the consequences if I choose to provide Ravka with the truth instead of this bedtime fable?”

The Apparat looks at him with a cool and level gaze, unblinking, not the slightest trace of compassion on his features. Living in the palace as an advisor of the king has lent him a cleaner air, makes him appear less hollowed-out and better put-together, but he’s still an alarming-looking man. “What are you willing to risk to find out, Your Majesty?”

It shouldn’t irritate Nikolai as much as it does that the priest keeps addressing him properly, with his full respectful title. But all it does is remind him of everything that’s at stake—and everything he may still have to sacrifice.

 

Several hours after his lovely little chat with the Apparat, Nikolai sends a message to the Little Palace requesting that Alina have dinner with him tonight. There are other, less appalling things they need to discuss, and he wants to hear about her progress with the Second Army. And he’s hoping that if they are already discussing politics, easing into the conversation they need to have will be at least a little easier.

They eat in his chambers, and it’s a brisk, businesslike interaction. Nikolai isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or not; he misses Alina’s easy manner with him, the friendship that they knew would forever be altered when they married. But he wonders if having a wife and a queen he trusts absolutely, who’s loved by the people and useful to the government and understanding in ways no one else could be of the darkness inside him, might be better. He’s not sure if he knows the answer.

Alina seems better than she has been, though she’s still subdued, more polite than anything else, long since lacking the light bantering tone she’d usually take with him. She seems more animated, though, when discussing her plans for the Second Army, how things are being restructured to accommodate its new, more integrated nature, how the officers are beginning to plan undercover scouting trips to neighboring nations to find more Grisha in hiding, a plan Nikolai fully approves of. It’s clear to him that this is what she’s made for, that her dedication to the future of Ravka needs a productive, practical outlet. She’s grown into a remarkable leader and the remaining Grisha would follow her to the ends of the earth; he can’t imagine her being happy in a place where she wasn’t using her talents on such a scale.

Nikolai, in turn, tells her the fruits of his own labors with his advisors, their advice and the decisions he’s begun to make about their staff, the organization of the palace, and military efforts at both diplomatic and aggressive turns. There’s so much more that needs to be done—the replenishing of the kingdom’s coffers, most urgently—but under the circumstances, hearing everything they’ve done laid out at once is encouraging. It makes him think that they’re accomplishing all that they can, that they may not be so poorly suited or prepared for the massive tasks that still lie before them. Maybe they can get through it together.

There is, though, something else they need to get through together first.

Nikolai waits until the meal is almost over, on a pleasant lull in conversation, before saying, falsely casual, “It seems our sleeping arrangements have been provoking some gossip.”

Alina’s fork clatters to her plate and her head jerks up to face him, eyes wide and alarmed. He doesn’t say anything more for a moment, waiting to see how she’ll react, but when it seems further reaction isn’t forthcoming, he adds, gentling his tone, “We said it would be a marriage in name only. If it were only up to me—I have no intention of forcing you to do anything at all. But it seems the people need proof of a stable alliance in the ruling family.”

Alina’s breath huffs out of her in a soft, elongated exhale, but she still doesn’t move or speak; her expression looks resigned more than anything else. Clearly, though Nikolai’s raising the issue is a shock to her, the issue itself isn’t. Soldiers are terrible gossips; he’s sure she’s been subject to questions about their marriage, spending all day with them as she does. He feels for her, knowing how awkward the entire situation is—though he can’t help feeling a little slighted as well, that she would so dread the idea of sharing his bed. Surely proof that he is a genuinely awful person.

“Can we agree,” he asks, even more softly, as if she’s a rare creature he might scare away by acting too suddenly, “to share the bed tonight—as a start? Nothing more need happen. Though,” he adds, raising both eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture, forcing his way into a jocular tone, “if you were to become carried away—all my gloriousness on full display—well, no one would blame you for a minute.”

Alina snorts, the gesture loud and derisive, then looks a little embarrassed even as Nikolai laughs, more relieved than anything else. Then, slowly, she nods. “As a start.”

Nikolai smiles. “Well, then,” he says, and spears the last remaining bite of food on his plate firmly onto his fork. “I’ll see you again soon.”

She’s dressed in nightclothes when she comes to his chambers several hours later. He is too, though he doesn’t usually sleep in them; he doesn’t want to do anything, though, that might risk scaring her away or changing her mind. He’s already lying down, and even though he moves to nearly the edge of the bed to allow her to climb in, stiffly lying down on the opposite side, the bed is big enough that there’s still well over a foot of space between them.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever really seen you at a loss,” Nikolai says, forcing the note of humor back into his voice. It’s not entirely true—by now, they’ve seen each other in dozens of compromising positions—but the particular manner of her unease and discomfort are certainly new, let alone the subject.

Alina shoots him a wry look. “I can’t think of a time I haven’t felt at a loss in the last three weeks,” she tells him, blunt as always. “I never dreamed something like this would be my life.”

Guilt, for a moment, consumes Nikolai so thoroughly that he can barely breathe; Alina, clearly seeing it, reaches to rest a hand lightly on his arm, then snatch it quickly away, as if all too aware that it’s her first time willingly touching him since their marriage. “I’m not saying I regret it, Nikolai. I’m saying the last year would have been totally incomprehensible to me growing up, let alone the last month. I’m out of my depth, but I don’t regret this choice. I think we can make a difference for the nation. I want to be a part of that.”

“Lie back and think of Ravka?” Nikolai suggests, attempting to infuse a note of levity into his voice, but painfully aware that he sounds more bitter than anything else. Alina’s responding laugh sounds much the same.

“Nikolai,” she says after a moment, and her tone is more serious. “I don’t regret marrying you.”

It eases the clench of guilt around his heart, but the relief it brings is faint. He’s still aiming to keep his tone light as he responds, “Truly inspiring. The words every gentleman dreams of hearing.”

“Stop,” Alina says, and her voice is so unexpectedly fierce that he does. “I mean it. I knew what I was doing when I made this choice. I knew what it would mean. I don’t regret it. Any part of it.”

There’s a lot Nikolai could say to that—a lot that he wants to say. And out of respect to Alina’s honesty, the things she didn’t have to say to him, he lets out of his mouth the first thing that comes to his mind. “Even if you wish it had been someone else?”

Her face twists for just a moment, and Nikolai briefly hates himself for causing her pain. But she makes a visible effort to collect herself, and just like that he finds himself admiring her strength instead. “I did always think that if I were to get married, it’d be to Mal,” she says softly, the pain in her voice obvious. “And it’s not like I had so much time to reconcile myself with—to make myself used to—” Her voice breaks a little and she stops, visibly forcing the excess of emotion down. “But we both knew what needed to be done. He made that choice, too. I’d known for weeks it probably wouldn’t be possible. If it has to be anyone else, I’m glad it’s you.”

The words shouldn’t warm his heart as much as they do. He knows something is broken inside of him, something far beyond the understanding of most people, far beyond repair, that he should still want Alina under the circumstances, when most ordinary men would refuse to even contemplate taking her like this. (Well, he knows that isn’t true. Many ordinary men are bastards—not the way he is, but in behavior—and would want her no matter the circumstances, no matter what it would do to her. But he’s always hoped he would be beyond that. It seems, though, he’s as terrible as any ordinary man.)

Still, he must have some shred of decency left in him because he’s still not touching her, still staying on his side of the bed, and forcing out the words, with some effort, “Alina—I said we would only sleep in the same bed tonight. You don’t have to make this decision now. We can wait.”

Her expression is grave; she looks wise beyond her years. _Sankta Alina,_ he finds himself thinking. _Madraya._ “Ravka can’t wait forever,” she says, and her voice is low but steady. “If this needs to happen—and I know it does—waiting will change nothing. I would rather do it now.”

Her tone, Nikolai thinks darkly, ruefully, is better suited to the executioner’s block than the marriage bed. “I won’t force you, Alina,” he says, and his tone is a little sharper than he meant it to be. “After everything—all you’ve done, all you’ve gone through—”

Bewilderingly, that makes her look amused. She tips her head, as she often did when speaking disrespectfully to him, blunt as no one else ever dared to be. “After everything I’ve gone through,” she repeats, her tone lightly mocking, “how can you believe that this’ll be what does me in?”

Nikolai wants to smile, but can’t bring himself to do it. “I won’t, not after—you deserve to be able to make your own choices.”

She laughs, tinged with bitterness, amused expression still on her face. “Nikolai,” she says slowly, as if speaking to a child, “I didn’t choose to come live with the Duke in Keramzin. I didn’t choose to be drafted into the war or to come to the Little Palace. I could count on one hand the number of true choices I’ve made in my life. I know my decisions have to be informed by what’s best for Ravka, and what’s best for people other than just me. True choice is a luxury queens don’t have, but that means that I was never really that much different from a queen for most of my life.”

Knowing that doesn’t make Nikolai feel much better. “If Ravka is the only reason you’re doing this,” he starts, awkward, unsure of where the train of thought is taking him. What is he trying to say, to prove to her? Of course she would only be doing it for Ravka; isn’t that what’s forcing his urgency, too? Was he hoping, he thinks in disgust, to wait long enough for her to develop feelings for him, to want to come to his bed? He needs to convince himself that that won’t happen, that he should stop hoping for it before it consumes him.

Alina smiles again, a small smile, crooked and rueful and tinged with something that could be reluctance or shyness. It breaks Nikolai’s heart just a little. “There isn’t always just one good reason to do something. If I choose to do this because I want to—I can want to do it for more than one reason. It doesn’t have to be the reason you would think.”

She extends her hand, palm up, letting it sit in the space between them on the bed. He’s slow to reach for it, slow to envelop it in a gentle clasp. 

They sit like that for a moment, the fragile, tenuous connection between them. Nikolai takes a deep breath before moving closer, raising his other hand to brush his fingers through her hair; she sits very still, her gaze solemn on his as he touches the pale strands. He still can’t fully get over its change in color, its brightness. She may no longer be able to cast light, but her hair seems to halo her face with its own luminosity anyway.

“I’m not a virgin,” she says after a long moment, the admission finally causing her gaze to slide from Nikolai’s.

It honestly doesn’t surprise him too much, given that she spent so much time with Mal in such dire circumstances. Enough has been taken from her already; he’s honestly a little relieved this doesn’t have to be one of them.

He looks to the left, then to the right, as if worried about spying ears, and leans in to say in a conspiratory whisper, “Neither am I.”

Alina laughs, a startled little sound, and smiles at him, more genuinely than she has in weeks. There’s as much relief in it as amusement, perhaps even more, but Nikolai doesn’t care. “Really?” she murmurs, eyes widening in false shock. “I can’t believe it.”

He grins in return, sitting up to rest his hand lightly at the back of her neck, the space between them now less than a foot. “I know,” he says, and taking a deliberately, falsely mournful tone comes a little easier now. “My troubles with women are unrivaled. If only I were handsome or titled, how different my life would be.”

Alina laughs again, squeezing his hand even as she rolls her eyes. “Poor, poor Sobachka,” she says in similar tones. “Your troubles are many.”

“Whatever they are,” he says, his tone suddenly serious again. “I’m glad you’re here to share them. It makes it easier.”

It’s not quite what he means to say—he doesn’t want her to bear the burdens he does, doesn’t want to make things harder for her, but if he had to share this with anyone, he’s glad it’s her, wants it to be her, doesn’t think there’s anyone better suited for the work than her—but from the look on her face, the gentle, solemn sympathy, he thinks she understands. And in the end, she’s the one who leans in to him first.

 

It’s awkward, of course; neither of them truly, fully wants this, under the circumstances, and neither of them have so much skill or experience that it could be anything but. Still, Nikolai touches Alina as reverently and gently as he can, and Alina’s hands on him are curious rather than reluctant, and he thinks that both of them can find something in the experience to treasure.

They don’t talk afterward, so Nikolai can’t speak for Alina’s experience; she falls asleep first, relaxing on the pillow next to him. But as he watches her peaceful face, he thinks that he has never felt more like a king than when he felt her fall apart beneath his hands, and he can’t stop himself from thinking that he would fight any number of wars in exchange for the sensation of losing himself inside her.

 

There isn’t blood on the sheets, but the servants still find the king and queen asleep in the same bed the next day, so order in the palace is restored.

When Nikolai sees the Apparat the next day, he doesn’t say anything, but he looks a little too smug for Nikolai’s liking. But in all honesty, Nikolai is feeling more than a little smug himself, though he knows he shouldn’t. So he lets it go, as long as the subject isn’t brought up again (and it isn’t; clearly things were not quite as dire as he was made to believe, clearly some exaggeration tactics employed, though he doesn’t think he could bring himself to regret it). He’s done his part, he knows. He would rather like to get back to trying to rule the country, now that this is over.

The days continue, then, much as they had before: Nikolai working through politics in the Grand Palace, Alina working with the Grisha in the Little Palace, not much crossover in their roles in ruling the kingdom. The difference is that they sleep beside each other every night; they don’t touch again, except in the most innocent of ways, and Nikolai tries to tell himself that that’s enough, that he doesn’t miss the loss when her body is a mere foot away from his every night. He can sometimes almost convince himself that he doesn’t still ache for her.

Still, things are better between them now, easier. He never would have guessed that sleeping together would have improved their relationship, but he should know by now that nothing with Alina is ever quite as expected. But she seems more animated now, eager for them to work together to craft Ravka back into a country it should be. Whatever awkwardness was between them with their current situation is practically gone, the joking friendship they’d had back in full, and there’s as much laughter as politics in their bed every night.

He tells her every development in the Grand Palace, explains to her the diplomatic deals and military plans and economic policies being crafted in his council chambers every day. She listens, often with good insights to provide, as well as biting commentary on the intellectual progress of some of the advisors that has Nikolai laughing so loudly he half expects servants’ gossip to develop about the extremely strange tastes of the king and queen.

Their only real sticking point is the continued presence of the Apparat on Nikolai’s council. Alina hasn’t ever called him out in anger again, but Nikolai can tell it still bothers her.

Well, it bothers him, too, but there isn’t much he can do about it right now. The Apparat is a religious leader of the people, one who has been in power for years. There’s a lot that needs to change, between his parents’ reign and his, but some things need to stay the same. And there has been so much religious upheaval already—what with the people’s beloved saint losing her power and becoming a queen—Nikolai thinks that the current regime needs to have visible, historic links to the church at least a little longer.

He’s tried to tell Alina this, but it’s hard for her to fully understand and sympathize, after all she’s been through. She’s sacrificed enough for the people without needing more compromise. And in most senses, in the ways he can make it happen, Nikolai agrees.

In turn, Alina tells him about all of the Second Army’s plans. They’re beginning to form scouting parties with the aim to head to other countries and find other Grisha in hiding, both to save them from the horrors facing them elsewhere and to recruit them to the army. Alina’s animated discussing these plans, passionate about the cause, though she clearly seems a little bothered by the calculation involved. Nikolai understands; being a soldier will always mean danger and sacrifice, even though Ravka is still probably the safest place for Grisha.

He understands why it bothers Alina, who was conscripted to an army herself; she’s concerned about the safety of the Grisha and whether they would want to be soldiers, her wish for what’s best for Ravka warring with her desire to keep others safe from the things she herself has been through. Nikolai wishes he could have scruples like that, but being raised as a prince has made him think of the good of the country above all else. He doesn’t want to force Grisha into service either, but after the decimation of the Second Army in the war, the country needs them. That’s all he can afford to think about.

They talk like this every night, sharing insights into the government, telling one another what progress they’ve made and what their plans are for what comes next. It’s an arrangement they’ve come to without discussion or prior planning—it just seems to make the most sense, given their strengths and experiences, for Nikolai to discuss diplomacy and strategy and for Alina to handle matters of magic. At first it was more a matter of practicality than anything else; there was so much to be done, it made sense for them to split up and play to their strengths to accomplish as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

Now, though, Nikolai has to bring it up to Alina, because he’s been thinking about it more and more. Alina isn’t a conventional queen, the sort who wouldn’t usually do anything but plan social events rather than having actual involvement with politics. And that’s as it should be—she’s the first Grisha queen, after all, and someone who’s already accomplished far more than many queens have in their entire lives. Might it, then, make more sense for them to present a united front, for both of them to take over all aspects of ruling?

Alina looks thoughtful, tilting her head to one side. “If you’d like me to come along to council meetings,” she says, slowly, looking more than a little dubious, “I guess I wouldn’t mind. I know it’s important for me to be aware of these things. I’m not sure how much I would have to contribute, though.”

“I don’t know if I’d have much to say to Grisha, either,” Nikolai concedes wryly. “I’m familiar with the military, but magic is a little out of my depth. I suppose you appointed those three in charge for a reason, and I trust you that they know what they’re doing and how to run their own.”

Alina’s smile is just as wry, if a little gentler, as she looks back at him. “So it seems like we’re playing to our strengths already. Why ruin a good thing?”

Nikolai rests his chin in his hand, shifting to lie on his side as he studies Alina. “I don’t know,” he says idly. “I’m starting to think meetings would be far more entertaining with you there. You’re a born diplomat. Your opinions would be extremely valuable.”

“Stop,” Alina says, scowling as she reaches over to shove him, and both of them laugh as he lets himself fall onto his back. “I know you just want me there for the entertainment value. You’d ruin my day just to laugh at my diplomatic failings. Very inconsiderate.”

Nikolai grins up at her. “And I’m sure you don’t want to hear my musings on what magic might be capable of or how things could be used. Zoya would laugh me out of the Little Palace.” He drops his voice dramatically, eyes wide, only half joking as he murmurs, “She terrifies me.”

“She should,” Alina replies wryly, and both of them laugh again, Nikolai relishing the way she sounds, freer than she has in weeks.

“So it seems we’ve reached an equitable division of labor,” Nikolai says after a moment, studying Alina. “Eventually, we’ll have to introduce you to some of the councilors, parade you in front of the ambassadors—”

Alina barely manages to suppress a shudder of distaste, but adds just as cheerfully, “And you’ll need to unite the two armies, bringing together Grisha and soldiers—”

Nikolai doesn’t relish the idea himself, but he nods, knowing it’s true. “But for now, as we put things back together—it seems things are going as well as we can make them. Why ruin a good thing?”

Alina shoots him a sharp, contemplative look at his echo of her words, as if looking for a deeper meaning. And he only has a brief moment to wonder if maybe he did mean to infuse them with one before she changes the subject.

Nikolai treasures those conversations, usually starting after dinner and continuing until one or both of them are asleep. Sometimes they stay awake for hours; Nikolai once missed half of a morning meeting catching up on sleep after spending nearly all night talking to Alina. They rarely touch except in the most casual of ways; they never talk about their night together or Mal or the darkness still in Nikolai or Alina’s lost magic. But they talk about almost everything else—their childhoods, their hopes and dreams, their plans for the future of Ravka. Everything is still difficult and uncertain in the kingdom, and they’re barely figuring out how to stay in charge of ruling it all, but here, with one another, it seems they’ve found a place where they belong.

 

Every night, Alina keeps Nikolai updated on the state of the Grisha missions to other countries, and there’s always a tone in her voice that he can’t quite read. He thinks sometimes it’s concern, both for the soldiers who go on the missions and for the Grisha they rescue; sometimes he’s sure that it’s her conscience troubling her about the self-interest inherent in the missions. But it isn’t until she tells him about the planned trip to the Wandering Isle next month that he realizes exactly what it is.

It’s nearly three-quarters into the discussion of the plan that Nikolai notices something unusual: that rather than referring to the soldiers as “they,” she’s been saying “us” and “we.” When he points it out, a look both wary and sheepish flits across Alina’s face, and Nikolai realizes several things all at once.

“You’re going with them,” he says, so stunned by both the notion and the fact that it has never occurred to him before to worry about this exact thing, to expect that it would happen sooner rather than later. “You are actually going on this mission.”

“Yes, I am,” Alina says, lifting her chin stubbornly. There’s that look, Nikolai thinks dimly—he hasn’t seen it in too long. He should have known it would be building to something like this. “I’m going. They need me—they need as many people as can be spared—you can’t stop me.”

Nikolai arches an eyebrow, every inch the supercilious prince, even perched on the rumpled bed in a nightshirt though he is. “Let’s go in reverse order. Of course I can stop you; I can’t believe you would even try to argue otherwise. And I don’t disagree that they need as many people as can be spared. You, however, are the queen of Ravka, and as such, by definition, aren’t one of those people. And at the risk of blowing up the elephant in the room, you’re not a Grisha anymore. I don’t see why they would need you in particular on these missions.”

Alina, unsurprisingly, looks furious, clenching her jaw as she springs off of the bed. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up,” she says, her voice low and hard. “I can’t believe you’re using that against me. I’ve done so much for the Second Army already, I finally have a place to do good for Ravka—I’ve thought this through. We all have. I’m not a reckless child. I’m going to be well protected—I know what I’m doing. I’m _going_ on this mission, Nikolai.”

He spreads his hands, giving a little shrug. “All right.”

Alina opens her mouth to argue again, then shuts it, staring at him in bewilderment. “What?” she asks blankly.

Nikolai smiles, faint and crooked. “Alina,” he says, “this is dangerous. But I know you know that. You’ve been working with the Grisha for weeks. You know what you’re doing. I trust you. I could stop you if I wanted to—and believe me, I’m tempted—but I’m not going to.”

Alina looks completely nonplussed, but after a few moments, she sits back down on the bed, looking a little sheepish. “All right,” she says, looking a little dubious. “What was—all that about, then?”

“I trust that you’ve thought it through,” Nikolai says. “But I want you to think it through even more. You’re the queen of Ravka. You’ve never been expendable, but now you’re even less so. If the country loses you—I want you to think about what that would mean, and whether we would be able to recover.”

Alina nods, huffing out a soft breath as her expression goes more serious. “I know. I’ll stay out of any of the action. I’m not a Grisha anymore—” and he notes that she’s almost able to say it without flinching “—so I won’t be in danger. And I know I look distinctive, so Genya will tailor me so that I won’t resemble myself at all.”

“There will still be danger,” Nikolai says softly, and Alina nods again.

“I know that, too. But I can’t—I _can’t_ keep doing nothing. I know I’m helping, organizing, making plans that’ll shape the future—but I want to do more. I want to be where things are actually happening. I want to help in a real, concrete way.”

“I know,” Nikolai says in turn, and he realizes that that’s what he’s been hearing in Alina’s voice. She’s been working hard, and she’s been doing her best, but after months of nearly non-stop action, big sweeping breathless moments and changes in her life, no matter how hectic a palace life, she was bound to get antsy. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting it. She wants to be out in the world, doing things with distinct proof of help and effort. “But we need you safe, and we need you to come back. So be careful.”

Alina smiles, faint but lit with an anticipation she can’t hide. “I will. I promise. I’m not going to be reckless about this, but—it’s important. It may be some of the most important work I ever do.”

“I trust you,” Nikolai says, and he means it. But it doesn’t stop him from staying awake long after Alina’s asleep, thinking over all of the things that could go wrong, and feeling cold in a way far past how he felt when controlled by the Darkling, in a way he never thought possible.

 

It takes another week to fully plan the mission—it appears Alina was waiting until the last possible minute to tell him about it—and Nikolai doesn’t stop worrying the whole time.

He would have laughed at himself a year ago, being in such a twist over someone taking an informed risk, a soldier choosing to go on a military mission. But knowing it’s Alina, in the position they’re in… that changes everything. He’s barely had the time to know what it’s like to be with her. He’s not ready to so much as face the possibility of losing her.

He helps out as much as he can, gathering intelligence on the Wandering Isle on the military and diplomatic front, providing excuses as to where the Grisha will actually be, laying groundwork for this as a covert operation, diverting funding to make sure that they’re well supplied. But there’s only so much that he can do, and he’s beginning to realize that for all the strange, dangerous moments in his life, he has only once before been so completely powerless, and that was when he had no mind of his own. He wonders bitterly if this is what marriage is always going to be like, and he wonders what it says about him that he still doesn’t regret it.

He even meets with Zoya, David, and Genya along with Alina, lets them explain their full strategy and plan to him in detail. He tries not to annoy them with his insistence on knowing all the details, but he can tell that while it doesn’t matter either way to David and it amuses Genya, it’s driving Zoya more than a little mad, and after an hour or two she finally snaps at him that he either has to trust them or call the whole thing off, and he tries to laugh it off and dismiss them. But the truth is that he’s still concerned, and nothing can assuage it.

He tries to throw himself into work, to distract himself as much as possible, but his nights are still mostly, vastly sleepless. He does what he can to put up a front for Alina, but lying next to her, knowing that there’s a chance his nights by her side are numbered—it’s almost too much to bear.

The day of the mission gets there much too swiftly, and soon Nikolai is saying goodbye to Alina and the others. He sends the Grisha out with words of encouragement and patriotism, but his farewell to Alina takes place in private.

There’s only so much that he can say; he doesn’t want to pressure her, and he doesn’t want to say everything on his mind and in his heart right here, when she’s about to be in danger, about to leave for what will be at least weeks, what could be months. So though he can hardly bear it, he tries to hold back, though the solemn, sad look on her face is almost too much to bear.

Before he can say anything, she throws her arms around him, fierce and tight, and all he can do is hold her in turn, clutching her small form as tightly as he can, burying his face in her pale hair. “Come back to me,” he whispers, so hoarsely he’s not sure if she heard him.

But she pulls away, her expression as fierce as her hug, and she says, so intense he can almost believe it’s an unbreakable promise, “I will.”

He believes her, and it makes it a little easier to watch her walk away.

 

The next few weeks are agonizing, among the worst of Nikolai’s life. He’s tried to set up checkpoints for the Grisha, to give them the ability to check in about how the mission is going, but it’s three weeks before he hears anything for the first time, and when he does it’s frustratingly vague.

Now that he doesn’t have Alina to update him on the Second Army, Nikolai has more to do than ever. He sets up daily meetings with Genya and David (Zoya went on the mission, leaving both of them here to continue work on training) so that they can let them know what they’re doing. And it goes well; he likes both of them very much, and he approves of what they’re doing. But, of course, they’re not Alina, so it isn’t the same.

He tries to keep busy. He plans strategy, military interventions, diplomatic talks. He meets with delegates from Fjerda and Kerch. He thinks about the ball they’ve been discussing for the anniversary of the battle that changed everything; he enlists Genya’s help for planning. He reviews his lessons in other languages to ensure that he’s keeping up, not falling behind in his fluency. He even reads for fun. Nothing is enough to distract him.

He thinks about Alina every minute of the day. Even if he’s exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute his head hits the pillow, the absence of her next to him, the lack of the soft weight on the bed he’s grown so accustomed to, makes it impossible to truly relax. The thought of never feeling it again is enough to leave him awake in a cold sweat the rest of the night.

He’s aware that his reaction is completely mad. The mission is not unsafe—they’ve planned every detail, Alina is disguised, there should be no true threat to them. She was in far greater danger during the war, a million times over. But she wasn’t his wife then. He had longed for her in ways he couldn’t even explain to himself, but even in his most optimistic moments, he had never truly thought he’d mean anything to her but the obvious, her friend and her king. 

Now, though, he has the memory of her in his arms, the warmth of her skin, the curve of her lips in that smile just for him, lit by the evening lamps, the weight of her hands in his as they spoke soft vows. Her absence weighs on him even harder than the darkness in his chest; he’s afraid that without her, it might take over. They’ve spent so little time together, but already he isn’t sure who to be on his own.

Eventually, he finds himself becoming used to Alina’s absence, to the hole it’s left in his chest, to the ever-present anxiety for her safety. It’s been almost as long without her as it’s been with her in his bed, and that seems impossible, given how much it’s been changing his entire life.

Nikolai watches the messages from the Grisha missions, and he pays attention to the climate from the countries where they have traveled, and he keeps tabs on the spies he has throughout the country. He hears when the Grisha arrive on the Wandering Isle, and he hears (in a heavily coded message) that they have rescued multiple families of Kaelish Grisha, and he—finally—receives the message that they are preparing to leave, and should return in roughly a month, sending Nikolai’s heart soaring with anticipation. He’s sure it’ll fly by.

The message states, also heavily coded, that one of the Grisha has been lost on the trip, and it tears for a moment at Nikolai’s heart, darkness clawing at his chest. He tries to reassure himself that if it had been the queen who was lost, they would have coded the message more strongly, made it clear that he would know what it meant. It’s small comfort, but he tells it to himself every night over and over, clinging to what reassurance he can.

And two weeks into receiving the message, perhaps half an hour into the morning council meeting, the doors fling open and Alina, undisguised and still dressed in heavy travel clothing, bursts in.

Nikolai shoots to his feet, breaking off mid-sentence, and runs for the door; Alina meets him halfway, throwing herself into his arms and clinging so tightly it’s almost painful. She’s trailed in by weakly protesting servants, and around them the council members are sending up a grumble of discontent. Nikolai doesn’t care. She’s here—she’s back—she’s alive and safe—nothing else matters.

“Alina,” he gasps, clutching her closer, barely able to believe it. “Alina—is it really you?”

“Yes,” she murmurs back, just as breathless as she clings to him, burying her face in his shoulder, her chest heaving. “It’s me. I’m here. I’m back—I’m all right—”

“I thought it would be another two weeks,” he says, muffled into her hair. He can’t believe it; the moment feels surreal. He feels dazed from the rapid acceleration of his heart, beating so hard it’s as if it’s forcing its way out of his chest. “I thought—”

“We lied,” she admits, pulling back enough for him to see her face, to see that she’s lit up just as much as he feels he must have. “Exaggerated, just in case—it was intercepted, or we didn’t know if we could come back in time, but—”

“Thank the Saints,” he says, voice rough, and without thinking, without second-guessing or giving it too much meaning, he bends his head and kisses her, kisses her with all the pent-up worry and fear fueled by how deeply he’s missed her, how grateful he is to have her here again, how empty he’s felt without her and how hard he burns to have her at his side again.

And kicking his heart into a new level of triumph, Alina kisses him back, fingers digging into his coat, pulling herself as close to him as possible as he wraps his arms around her to hold her there.

The kiss goes on for what feels like hours, and when they pull apart, Alina’s expression is dazed as she whispers, “You—you should—your meeting—”

Nikolai nods, then without releasing her, turns to the rest of the council and says, “Thank you for your time. We’re done for today.”

Then he turns, without waiting to see their reactions, grabs Alina’s hand, and takes off at a near-run for the royal quarters.

She’s laughing, breathless and incredulous, as they enter the room, Nikolai slamming the door shut behind them. “Nikolai,” she exclaims in disbelief, but she’s grinning at him as she sheds her coat. “You know you can’t do things like that.”

“I’m king,” he says, a note of exaggerated arrogance in his voice as he turns to her, relishing the sound of his name in her voice, so overjoyed to have her with him again he can hardly bear it. “I can do whatever I want.”

She arches an eyebrow, challenging and wry. “Oh?” she says, the syllable infused with a wealth of implication.

And Nikolai can’t stand it for another minute. He goes to her, and he takes her in his arms, and he kisses her again, gentler but with no less passion, and her arms wind around his neck as she responds, warm and willing and eager in his arms, and his heart sings.

She pulls off his coat, and he pulls off her kefta, and both of them are still fumbling with the clothing that remains when they edge toward the bed and collapse onto it, laughing and breathless and never pausing in their thorough exploration of one another. He braces his body over hers, gaze drinking in every inch of the wife he’s missed with all his heart; she rolls over on top of him, smiling, her pale hair streaming down and across his chest.

Their first time, Nikolai had been uncertain, agonized; it had been startlingly emotional, more tender than anticipated, but it had been the two of them united for a common cause, their bodies only conduits for the good of the country. Now, there’s nothing there but the two of them, their relief in being safe, their joy in being together, the union of a man and a woman, not a king and queen, but Nikolai and Alina.

When it’s over, they lie in one another’s arms, still, sated, silent. Nikolai drops a kiss to the top of Alina’s head, and she shifts closer to him; he can feel the curve of her mouth against his chest.

“I can’t believe how good it feels to be back,” she murmurs, sounding a little awed. “This—the palace—it’s never felt so much like home before.”

Nikolai’s never felt so overwhelmed. There’s still war, strife, unrest, poverty—but right now, Alina is in his arms, and everything seems just right. “Welcome home,” he says, and she laughs softly.

He hates to sober the mood so quickly, but he has to address this; it’s too important. “You said a Grisha was lost?” he asks softly, and he feels Alina stiffen, her head bow.

“She was,” she says quietly, her tone mournful. “It was an accident—she wandered away from the camp—and we think she was taken by drüskelle.” Nikolai shudders; the Fjerdan witch hunters are no joke, and any Grisha in their hands are not likely to have survived very long. They share a soft moment of silence for the lost Grisha.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” Nikolai says after a moment, feeling terribly selfish but knowing that he has to say it. “I was terrified—not just when I got word a Grisha had been taken, but—all month. For weeks. The entire time. Alina—”

“I won’t go again,” she reassures him, tilting her head up. “Not for a long time, if ever. I know I’m needed here. It—it was so good, though.” Her face lights, and she tells him every detail of the trip, the Grisha they saved, the beauty of the Wandering Isle, Zoya’s irritation with the younger soldiers in their small group, both the loneliness and dedication of the mission.

He listens, and he gently strokes her hair, and he keeps her as close to him as possible. She finishes, “It was—it was good. It was dangerous, but it was worth it. I kept thinking, though—” She flushes faintly, looking more overtly embarrassed than Nikolai has ever seen her. “I thought of you,” she admits softly. “All the time. I wondered what you were doing, if you were all right, what you were dealing with. I kept thinking of things you could say to the advisors,” she admits with a grin. “It would occupy me when things seemed too dangerous. I had more than a few choice words planned for them.”

Nikolai laughs, helpless, tightening his arms around her as if he can use the force of his emotions to keep her here. “I thought of you, too. I never stopped. I was so afraid something might happen to you—I couldn’t stand the thought.”

“All I wanted was to come back to you,” Alina says, her words coming quicker, more impassioned, as she tilts her head up, earnest face peering up into Nikolai’s. “I wanted to be back here. I thought, if I can get back safely—if I can come home safely—if I can go back to Nikolai and be with him, tell him—”

Nikolai can’t bear it. He pulls her close, kisses her again, more urgently this time, feeling in an instant that it would be unbearable to stay out of contact with her for one second. She responds eagerly, her mouth just as hungry, and there are no words again for a long time.

When they finish, lying together in sated, sleepy silence, Alina speaks again after a long moment, sounding contemplative but fully aware. “I think I’ve felt more like myself here, in the last few months, than I ever have before.”

Nikolai lets out a quiet questioning noise, lightly stroking her hair. It’s a sentiment that surprises him, but he’s curious to hear where she’s going with it.

“It always felt—before—like I was waiting for something to happen. At the orphanage. As a soldier. Training here. Looking for the amplifiers. Now I’m preparing for the future. I’m building something. I’m doing things I know will last long after I’m gone, and will be better for the fact that I helped create them.” She tips her chin up, a heartbreakingly soft smile on her face. “And I’m with the only person who has never wanted me to be anything other than who I am.”

It’s indescribably good to hear her say it, and Nikolai has to kiss her again, but he’s compelled to point out, “Not always. I wanted you to be queen at first—just for show. I played on the fact that you were the sun saint.”

She’s shaking her head, though, before he even finishes the sentence. “That isn’t what I meant. Mal—” And her throat still closes, for a moment, to mention his name, and Nikolai wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling jealous of a dead man. “He loved me,” she says softly, eyes downcast. “I believe that—that he loved me so much he wanted to make everything work. But all he wanted was for things to go back to the way they were. He would have—he would have mourned, with me, for the loss of my magic, but I think it would have made him glad, too, to think that things could go back to normal. That I could leave who I was behind, and stay unchanged by all of this.

“And the Darkling—he thought he could control me. Even in the moments when I felt that there was a real connection between us, something I might not find with anyone else—he lost interest in me the moment my powers disappeared. All he cared about was the way our magic mirrored the other’s, not me as a person.

“But you—” She looks up at him, and she smiles, faint and hopeful and shy and a thousand other lovely things at once. “Even when you wanted something from me—when you wanted me to play a role—you knew that that was all it was. You didn’t want _me,_ the person I really am, to change. You never minded that I had magic, or that I lost it. You always knew that who I am was different than what you needed from me, and that was all right.”

“I always believed that if I were ever to fall in love,” Nikolai says, slow and deliberate and purposeful, watching the way Alina’s eyes widen, the solemnity in her expression, “I wouldn’t entertain any idiotic ideas about changing her or wishing her to be different. I would love her for who she was and who she would become, and thank the Saints I was able to have her at all.” He pauses, feeling so vulnerable he can hardly stand it, but pushing on. “I was right. I do feel that way now. And I believe I always will.”

Alina initiates the kiss this time, pressing her hands to his chest as if she can hold his heart in her hands, and he holds her as if he can imagine nothing more precious.

“I believe that, too,” she whispers when she pulls away. “And—I’m almost there. Right now, I just know that this is where I belong. I can’t imagine feeling complete with anyone else.”

And with that promise and that certainty ringing in his ears and his heart, for the first time, Nikolai believes he can feel the darkness in him abating.


End file.
